


No Shame

by ancilla89



Category: Blue Bloods (TV)
Genre: Episode: s01e01 Pilot, Gen, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-20
Updated: 2021-03-05
Packaged: 2021-03-12 07:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 23
Words: 16,843
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28881789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ancilla89/pseuds/ancilla89
Summary: Danny is struggling after Fallujah. Linda tries to get him to open up.TEMPORARILY on hiatus, but I promise it will be finished.
Relationships: Danny Reagan/Linda Reagan
Comments: 68
Kudos: 9





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Visionsofdazzlingrooms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visionsofdazzlingrooms/gifts).



“The boys didn’t need to know that you put a suspect’s head in the toilet,” Linda said carefully.

He nodded, sitting on the end of the bed, a glass of water in one hand, the other absentmindedly rubbing his _Semper Fi_ tattoo. “Bastard kidnapped a little girl. I saw red.”

“You wouldn’t have waterboarded a suspect before…Fallujah. What happened over there?”

He stood up abruptly, the glass shattering on the floor and making him jump. “Nothing happened. I’m fine.”

“There’s no shame if you’re not, and there’s no shame in talking about what happened in Iraq.”

He walked backwards away from her, stopping when his back hit the wall. His heartbeat was picking up. He clenched his hands. “You’ve been talking to Dad. He had no right. That was a private conversation!”

“And you’ve been home three years, and you’re just getting angrier, Danny.”

“Why does everyone want me to talk? How the hell is talking gonna help? Is it gonna bring back my buddies? Bring back the kid I blew up?”

He froze. He hadn’t meant to say that.

* * *

_He pukes when he sees the bloody, lifeless body of a little boy. “Chuckles,” their translator, innocent and fresh-faced at 18, tells him the parents were trying to get their boy to a hospital. He slams his rifle into the sand, stalks back to base._

_He’s written up for going back to base without his rifle. He doesn’t give a flying rat’s @$$. A kid is dead, and it’s his fault, and as he loses brother after brother during the rest of that tour, he prays the next RPG will take his life. A life for a life. It’s the only way he can make up for what he’s done._

* * *

It’s silent, though; no gunfire, no desert heat, and someone is rubbing his back. He lashes out.

“Danny, Danny, it’s me. You’re safe, babe. You’re home.”

“Linda?” He blinked. He’s kneeling on the floor of their bedroom. Apparently he’d puked. “What happened?”

“You had a flashback, babe. You’re safe now. Please talk to me.”

He shook his head. “Talk, talk, talk! Why the hell does everybody want me to talk? Talking about it just means more nightmares and more flashbacks and more damned memories. What I need to do is ** forget.”

He stood up, went downstairs to get a drink of water, tore up the brochures from the V.A. Linda had lying on the kitchen table. If he had his way, he was going to be “too busy” to see any doctor for the next 60 years.

* * *

**A/N: “The kid Danny blew up” is a reference to the original pilot script, where Danny (whose name was originally “Brian”) fired at a car speeding through a checkpoint in Iraq, killing a little boy—thus precipitating his violent reaction to the suspect in the episode. I wish the show had explored that more.**

**I might write another chapter; ideas are welcome!**


	2. Chapter 2

He’s furious when he finds out he has to take another psych eval before they’ll let him back to his job as a detective.

He gives the shrink hell. This guy knows nothing about war, or being a Marine, or being a cop.

He goes back to work, partnered with some fresh-faced detective. That one lasts six months or so.

His mother dies less than a year after he comes home from Fallujah.

His next partner lasts about six months…then leaves the NYPD because of him. The next three, six, nine partners...each lasts six months, sometimes more, sometimes less.

He’s dealing with memories…heaven forbid Linda call them “flashbacks”…by telling himself he won’t have nightmares. “Don’t think, don’t think, don’t think” becomes his mantra. Stupid f-g mantra. Sounded like something a shrink would tell him.

Jamie graduates law school, joins the police academy, graduates 9 years to the day since Danny re-enlisted after 9/11.

He’s been home almost 5 years now.

* * *

He’s transferred to Major Case a few weeks after the Campos case, and Hotchkiss mocks him. If his last name weren’t Reagan, he would be in motor pool after the stunt with Banse. Not that he cares about favoritism. He just wants to catch bad guys, however he can.

He’s been picking up extra shifts, taking risks. It drowns out the memories.

“What was up with dinner earlier?”

Linda has the sense to look confused. “What do you mean?”

“Everyone very obviously stopped talking shop, and started talking about Nikki. I don’t need you mollycoddling me.”

“I’m not! It’s just…you eat better when they’re not talking shop.”

“When is the conversation at Sunday dinner ever **not** about shop? And again, why the need to baby me?”

“I’m not babying you, Danny! You’ve been leaving Sunday dinner early every week since the Campos case, not eating.”

“I’ve had to work. Why are you trying to keep things civil between me and Erin?”

“Because she’s always getting under your skin, and after what happened the other week…”

“You mean what happened in our bedroom? That had nothing to do with Erin.”

“You had a flashback.”

“No, I didn’t. Flashbacks are what happen to men who got limbs blown off, or who can’t cope with what happened. I’m fine. I was just...spooked. And whatever it was, it’s over,” he says, and lies down.

“Danny, you’ve been having nightmares and flashbacks off and on since you got home. For five years. Denying them, saying 'it's nothing'...you can't keep that up. And the only thing you told me was that you were the only guy in your unit who made it home! You need to talk about this, or it will destroy you!”

“Talking isn’t going to help. How many times do I have to tell you that?” he snaps.

* * *

Except, he does talk about it.

A little.

Never details.

But he can mention that he did two tours, without feeling the sand and smelling the gunpowder.

He’s coping…and then he catches the case of the murdered homeless man…and then he discovers that man was a Marine.

And suddenly, he’s once again feeling sand and smelling gunpowder and hearing the explosions that haunt his nights.


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: The next chapter will continue this scene. It’s going to be a long one, I think, so I broke this chapter where I did. Don’t hate me?** **😉**

The night after finding Michael Oates’s body, he has the worst nightmare yet. This one makes him puke, and he nearly decks Linda when she rubs his back.

He sits on the bed when he’s done. No point in lying down; he’s not going to get any more sleep tonight.

He wraps the comforter around his shoulders. He’s shaking from the cold sweat that poured off him. He hates being cold…it reminds of…that hellhole.

“Danny, I think you should talk to…” she starts.

He shakes his head, pulls away from her. “O hell no! If you mean a shrink…that would earn me a one-way ticket to the Rubber Gun Squad!”

Even in the dim light from the bathroom, he can see she’s confused. “Desk duty. No weapon. For the rest of my life. No way in hell is that happening; I’d rather kill myself.”

He curses quietly. He hadn’t meant to say that. He’d meant to say “I’d rather be shot.”

“Danny, don’t say that! You don’t…”

“I didn’t mean it, babe; just a figure of speech.”

“But you said it, and that worries me. There’s someone up near Brooklyn. Dawson or Lawson or something. He works with cops, with vets.”

He shakes in head. “Not happening. There’s nothing to talk about.”

* * *

But that Sunday, after family dinner—where he’d hardly said a word, and he’d rejected his favorite cheesecake—after he’d put the boys to bed with none of their usual play-wrestling, Linda says, very carefully, “ _You’ve been a million miles away these past few days. What’s going on?_ ”

He’s exhausted, strung-out, from the sheer mental effort it’s been taking to not break down in the precinct, to keep the memories at bay, to keep from punching every one of those punks’ faces to smithereens.

He doesn’t have the energy to tell her it’s nothing, to keep hiding.

He tells her about Bobby LaRue, the kid he called “Chuckles.” The kid—the man—who gave the ultimate sacrifice for him.

And then he says the five words that have been the refrain in his head every second of every day since his discharge.

“ _It should have been me_.”


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: In my headcanon, Danny was held captive for a few days during his second tour in Fallujah. He was tortured. Brief reference to that torture is made**.

“It should have been me,” he whispers, feeling a few tears slip down his face; and he can’t remember the last time he actually cried.

Joe’s funeral? No, he’d been trying to keep a stiff upper lip for his family’s sake.

His mother’s? Probably. That, coming so soon after his return from Fallujah, had about broken him.

He’s dimly aware of Linda moving to sit next to him, pulling him close, and then he’s crying quietly into her breast.

He pulls away after what felt like hours though it was probably only minutes. He’s exhausted.

“Why do you think it should have been you?” Linda asks, and she sounds almost angry; and he wants to lash out.

He shakes his head. “He was 19. He had his whole life ahead of him. I’m…”

The words “just a grunt,” “useless,” “expendable,” are on the tip of his tongue, but he knows better than to say them out loud. That will lead to Linda bodily dragging him to that Lawson or Dawson character she mentioned earlier.

He clears his throat. “I’m tired; can we finish this tomorrow?”

“No. We need to talk about this now.”

“Why?”

“Because you’ve been home five years, Danny; and if you still think you should have died over there, then we need to get you some help.”

She’s crying, but the “we” and the “help” put his hackles up, and he stands up so quickly she topples over on the bench.

He catches her before she can slide off, whispers “I’m sorry,” and flees to the basement.

* * *

He beats the $#!+ out of the punching bag, not bothering to wrap his hands. They’re a bloody mess by the time he sinks to the floor, exhausted.

She’s sitting on the stairs, watching him, and he stares at his hands. There’s an honest-to-goodness hole on the knuckles of his left hand, layers of skin missing. “I’m sorry.”

She comes toward him, slowly, like she’s approaching a frightened child in the ER. “I have the first-aid kit here, let me see your hands.”

He holds them out.

“This is going to hurt,” she says.

He curses at the sting of the rubbing alcohol. “I’m sorry I pushed you. Are you okay?”

“You didn’t push me, Danny; you stood up, and I slipped because you moved quickly. I’m okay.”

He nods, closes his eyes, jerks away from her when the alcohol hits the knuckles on his left hand.

The alcohol splashes on him, and the smell…

* * *

_It’s maybe the second day since Things That He Isn’t Going to Talk About started happening, after the other Thing Happened. He and one other Marine are the only ones still alive. One of the insurgents has been drinking, which means the enhanced interrogation techniques are just that much more enhanced. Suddenly the bastard forces the cheap, but strong, liquor, down Danny’s throat. It tastes the way rubbing alcohol smells._

_He chokes, splutters, gags. Is this what waterboarding feels like?_

_Suddenly Jonesy is pulling the S.O.B off him._

_He grins foolishly at his buddy, and passes out._

* * *

  
Someone’s talking.

At first it’s just noise.

Then words that sound fragmented and disjointed, like he feels.

“Danny, honey, you’re safe…at home…trying to clean your knuckles…please look at me… can you hear me?”

He blinks. “L…Linda?”

“Yeah. You’re safe, babe. You just spilled the entire bottle of rubbing alcohol on yourself, but you’re okay.”

That’s the smell, then.

He stands up. “I have to get it off, I have to…”

He pounds up the stairs, stopping to puke in the kitchen sink, then up the second flight to their bedroom. He turns the shower on as hot as it will go, gets in it, clothes and all.

He has to get rid of the smell. He’s glad of the stinging pain of his knuckles. Pain keeps him grounded.

Suddenly Linda is there, holding him. “Danny, what’s wrong? Please talk to me, honey. You’re scaring me.”

He shakes his head, doesn’t resist when she starts undressing him. doesn’t even resist when she starts washing him with her girly-smelling shampoo. _Anything_ will smell better than the rubbing alcohol.

He blinks. “You’re in the shower. With all your clothes on.”

She smirks at him. “So were you, until I took yours off. Please tell me what happened.”

He shakes his head. “You know what happened. I…freaked out.”

“What about earlier? You bolted when I suggested you get some help.”

“Reagans don’t take drugs, and they don’t go to therapy,” he recites the words he was raised on.

“You sound like you’re reciting the family motto.”

The teasing note in her voice makes him tense up again. “Might as well be.”

"Danny, you don't have to...be like your dad. It's okay to get help if you need it."

He's too exhausted to snap at the suggestion that he needs help. He yawns exaggeratedly, turns off the water. “I’m beat, can you bandage my hands so we can go to bed?”

She bandages his knuckles gently, and they go to bed. He holds her close, and hopes that tomorrow he can find the guy who killed Michael Oates, so he can actually sleep again.


	5. Chapter 5

He’s just drifting off when Linda says, in a choked voice, “Do you have any idea how many veterans kill themselves each day, Danny?”

He sits up, not sure where she’s going with this. “No. Why?”

“Twenty-two. 22 veterans take their own lives each day because of stress, or PTSD. And because they’ve been raised on that same bullshit that ‘Veterans don’t do therapy’ or ‘Our family doesn’t do therapy’ or ‘Cops don’t do therapy.’ That whole ‘Reagans don’t take drugs, and they don’t go to therapy,’ is a load of bullshit, Danny.”

“Why?”

“Because therapy saves lives, Danny! So do psychotropic meds.”

“Psycho-what?”

“Psychotropic…meds that help with depression and anxiety and other mental illnesses.”

“I’m not crazy! Why are we even talking about this?”

“Because you’re not crazy. You’re in pain. Maybe talking to somebody would help.” She sighs. “Did your dad actually say those words to you growing up?”

He shrugged. “I’d hear him and Mom arguing, her begging him to talk to her or somebody, or get something to help him sleep; him saying ‘Reagans don’t do that.’ He told us regularly that there were certain things Reagans just didn’t do: cheat on their wives, drunk-driving, prostitution, tax evasion, and therapy. Catholic 101 plus a few special rules for the Reagans. First…jumper…I had…I couldn’t talk the guy down safely. I went home, was gonna drink the neck and shoulders off a bottle of whiskey, follow it with half a bottle of Tylenol.”

“What stopped you?” She’s sobbing now, and he feels guilty.

“I was too drunk to get the safety cap off the Tylenol.” He laughs humorlessly. “Dad came by to see why I hadn’t finished my paperwork. He poured out the whiskey, threw out the Tylenol. Chewed me out for being so weak, told me what a disgrace I’d be to the family if I ended up in the psych ward, then took me to the shooting range to make me feel better. He reminded me that, no matter what, Reagans don’t do therapy, don’t take drugs. And they don’t try to commit suicide.”

“He shouldn’t have yelled at you, Danny. That was the last thing you needed to hear right then. I’m sorry.” She wraps her arms around him, and he can feel her trembling. “I’m worried about you; I lie awake when you’re working nights, wondering if this will be the night I get the call that you ate your gun.”

He tries to clench his fists but there’s so much gauze wrapped around them, he can’t. He takes a shaky breath. “I’m not gonna kill myself, Linda.”

“Not today, maybe. But you catch a case involving a little kid, or you can’t save somebody…don’t tell me you won’t think about it.”

He doesn’t say anything, because, there _had_ been days, months, when he first got back from his second tour, that he sat alone in his unmarked police car and held his weapon to his head. But he can’t tell her about those.

“How can Dad spend years telling us that Reagans don’t do therapy…and then, just because I stuck a guy’s head in the toilet, tell me ‘ _There’s no shame talking about what went on in Iraq_ ’? Well, maybe there wouldn’t be any shame if he hadn’t drilled it into my head all my life that that’s not something we do.”

“At least he finally got his head out of his @$$. What did happen in Iraq, Danny?”

He tenses up. “I can’t…” He looks at the clock. 3 a.m. “I’ve gotta get some sleep, so I can go catch the S.O.B. who murdered Michael Oates.”


	6. Chapter 6

**A/N: @[visionsofdazzlingrooms](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Visionsofdazzlingrooms/pseuds/Visionsofdazzlingrooms), I sorta stole your idea of Linda chewing Frank out...hope that's okay**.

* * *

Frank Reagan is preparing a speech—this one, he has to write himself—when the door opens. “I’m sorry, Sir,” Baker says, and Linda marches in.

She’s furious. “How dare you?”

He stands up out of habit. “How dare I what?”

“How dare you raise Danny…and Joe, and Erin, and Jamie…with the belief that you Reagans are too good for therapy, too good for medication? Danny’s in pain! He’s been in pain since he came home from that second tour, and you did nothing! He told me about when you had the balls to tell him ‘There’s no shame talking about what went on in Iraq’—as if that one line would undo years of conditioning that therapy is a sign of weakness! I’m disappointed in you, Frank Reagan!”

“Is Danny okay?” he asks, suddenly chilled.

“He’s working. And he’s as okay as he can be when he’s been home five years, and he _still_ thinks he should have died over there!”

“Survivor’s guilt is…”

“O, shut it with the therapy-talk, Frank! It’s not like you ever tried it! You don’t get to put names on what Danny’s going through, when you’ve done nothing to help him!”

Frank walks over to the window. It’s rude, but this will be easier if he isn’t looking her in the eyes. “I thought about suggesting that he get help when he first got home; but he was so on-edge, so brittle…I was afraid even hinting that he needed help, would push him over the edge.”

“So you just did nothing?”

He turns to face her. “I call him once a week to check up on him without actually saying that’s what I’m doing, but I’m sure he’s figured it out. I’ve called him twice this week. I told him not to let the case consume him, to spend time with you and the boys if he starts zoning out.”

Linda’s phone rings, and she answers it. “Hey, babe…Yeah, of course, I can. I’ll be there in 20 minutes.”

She hangs up, glares at Frank. “I’ll see you Sunday. You better sit down with him before then and tell him that lifelong lesson was a screwed-up one.”

* * *

“ _Taking Cassidy down will not bring Michael Oates back, and it will not give you answers to what happened in Iraq_.”

Despite that warning, he still gets into it with Cassidy when the punk resists arrest.

Once Cassidy is cuffed and being transported to holding, Jackie drives them back to the precinct so they can do their paperwork. He tried to protest, to say he was fine, he could drive, but he couldn’t see straight.

Sarge takes one look at his face and knuckles, listens to his side of the story, looks over his paperwork, and suspends him.

He’s finishing up his paperwork, when Linda gets to the precinct. He grabs his jacket and follows he to the car. He’s pretty sure she’s pissed at him.

They get home, and it’s noon on a workday, so he should be working, providing for his family; but instead he’s sitting on the edge of their bed, trembling in shock as Linda stitches up his cheek.

“C…Cassidy…threw…he threw the first punch,” he says through chattering teeth.

“I believe you, babe. I’m not mad at you; I just…got into it with your dad. What happened?”

“We…fought.” He doesn’t want to re-live the details; tonight’s nightmares will take care of that. “He’s accusing me of police brutality. I’m suspended.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I deserve it. What…what he did to Michael Oates, after what Michael went through over there… Cassidy deserved every punch I gave him. if Jackie hadn’t come up when she did…I would’ve killed the guy.” His throat is raw, and he feels like he’s actually going to cry. Dammit.

“Danny!”

“I didn’t say it would have been pre-meditated; just, the way he was punching me and I was punching back…he would have been killed if it’d gone on much longer.”

“And then what? You lose your badge? Go to jail because you finally went too far roughing up a suspect?”

He pulls away from her, leaving her holding the bandage she’d been about to put on his cheek. He stands up, walks to the door. “He killed a Marine, Linda. For no other reason than that he was drunk, and Michael was homeless. Life in prison is too good for him.”

He doesn’t make it halfway down the stairs before he’s sobbing.

He jumps when Linda sits down next to him and starts rubbing his back. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” he says…to Linda, and Michael Oates, and every Marine killed in Fallujah, and every one of the guys from his unit who made the ultimate sacrifice so he could come home safe to his family.


	7. Chapter 7

A few days pass, Danny keeping busy with Linda’s “honey-do” list—which is about ten times longer than it was the last time he saw it.

Friday night, the boys are at a friend’s house for a sleepover, and Linda is out with her girlfriends. He’s staring blankly at the TV, on his second (or is it third?) beer, which isn’t doing anything for his mood. In fact, it’s just making him think about Fallujah, and making him more pissed off about Michael Oates’ murder.

The doorbell rings, and he stands up, wonders briefly if he should get his weapon from the safe in the closet, then remembers he doesn’t have it, because he was suspended.

He opens the door. “Dad, what are you doing here?”

“We need to talk.”

He sighs. “Look, I know I screwed up, but Cassidy started it by resisting arrest.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

He lets his father inside, locks the door.

“Did you hear me the other day, about going to find Linda and the kids instead of getting lost in beer and TV?”

He shrugs. “Yeah. Guess I forgot. If that’s all you came here for…”

His father sits down on the couch, opens one of his bottles of beer, takes a slug. “It’s not.”

“Why are you here? And why are you drinking my beer?”

“I was thirsty.”

“You’re gonna give me a lecture, and you need the liquid courage.” He sits down in the armchair, wonders what he did now.

His father drains the bottle. “Linda came to see me the other day. It appears I owe you an apology.”

Now he’s really confused. “For what?”

“Raising you and your siblings with the belief that therapy is a sign of weakness.”

“O come on, Dad. Now you decide to change your tune?”

“Pops raised me with the same rule: ‘Reagans don’t take drugs, and we don’t go to therapy.’ So when I got back from Vietnam, joined the NYPD, and found some cop-turned-shrink was starting a ‘psychological services’ in the department, I ignored it. Learned real quick how to talk through a mandatory meeting after a shooting. It was just…what you did. You didn’t go to shrinks, and you didn’t talk about your feelings.”

“So why the hell do you think I would believe you when you said ‘ _There’s no shame talking about what went on in Iraq_ ’?”

“Because this is now, not then; it’s you, not me; and what happened in Fallujah…is worse than what I saw in Vietnam.” His dad adds, in a whisper, “Pops’ best friend killed himself after going to a shrink; I know a guy who tried to kill himself thanks to a crappy therapist.”

He bolts from his chair. “How the hell do you know what happened in Fallujah? You weren’t f-g there! You’re stronger than me, is that it? Get out!”

“Danny, that’s not…”

“Get the hell out.”

He’s angry enough to want to hit his father, so he’s relieved when the older Reagan walks out the door without another word.

He locks the door, throws an empty beer bottle across the room, and sinks to the floor.


	8. Chapter 8

He doesn’t tell Linda about his father’s lecture, just goes back to his m.o. of pretending everything is fine. It’s a little harder to do being suspended, because he’s home more; but he squeaks by until his return to work the following Wednesday.

There’s a note on his desk telling him he has a mandatory appointment with the department shrink.

He curses so fluently, Jackie scolds him. He hands her his weapon and badge, and storms out.

At first he’s headed for 1PP and his father’s office; then, with a screech of tires, he makes a U-turn and heads home. He’s not sure why he isn’t pulled over during the entire drive back to Staten Island; he’s going 10 over the speed limit, and he runs two red lights.

He slams his fist into the front of the house when the key sticks in the lock. The pain tells him he broke a finger.

The door opens. “Danny! Danny, what’s wrong?”

“My hypocritical *** father is ordering me to attend therapy. Son-of-a-***.”

He kicks the wall.

Linda looks like she’s going to cry, and he leans on the door, suddenly too exhausted to be pissed at anything.

“Let me look at your hand, babe.”

He lets her guide him inside, up the stairs to their bathroom.

She says it’s broken but not dislocated, and splints it with popsicle sticks.

He shakes his head when she says he should probably go to the ER and get an X-Ray. “I…not now, please. I can’t…be around all those people.”

“Danny, what did your father say when he was here the other night?”

He opens his mouth, but his chest is tight and he can’t breathe and he pulls his tie off so hard two buttons pop off his shirt. “Can’t…breathe…”

Linda’s arms are around him, pulling him against her chest. “Yes, you can. It just feels like you can’t. Breathe with me, Danny. Take a nice, deep breath with me. In…and out.”

He feels her chest move and he tries, desperately, to copy her.

He’s getting dizzier.

She rubs her knuckles on his chest (which hurts like hell), and he takes a gasping breath, and another.

“Good job. You’re okay, babe.”

He shakes his head.

When he can talk, he says, quietly. “Dad…tried to apologize. Made it worse. Said what happened in Fallujah is worse than what he saw in Vietnam. Implied that he’s stronger than I am, hence why I need to go to a shrink. But he knew a guy who killed himself after talking to a shrink, so…” He shrugs.

“Dammit, Frank! I’m going to kill him!”

“Don’t. I need you here, not in jail.”

Linda kisses his head. “If I knew of someone you could talk to, who wouldn’t tell the department, who wouldn’t tell your father, and no one but you, and me, and this doctor would know you were seeing him…would you give it a try? For me?”

“What is there to talk about?”

“Your father and his ridiculous attitude toward therapy; the nightmares that make you wake up screaming; Michael Oates; punching out Cassidy; being the only surviving member of your unit.”

He tenses up, clenching his hands, curses when pain stabs his broken finger. “Why?”

“Because maybe you won’t break another finger, punching a brick wall.”

He shakes his head and goes into their bedroom and lies down.

* * *

“What happened to your hand?” Ten-year-old Jack asks at dinner.

He shrugs. “I got mad at a wall and punched it.”

“Can you still shoot a gun?” Sean asks.

He shakes his head. “Nope. I’ll probably be on desk duty for a few weeks.” He’s not entirely sure how he’s going to _do_ desk duty; he can’t type with a broken finger.

“My friend Luke broke his finger playing basketball the other day, he said it hurt worse than getting shots.” Sean wrinkles his nose. “Does your finger hurt?”

He shrugs. “A little.” He stabs at his chicken.

* * *

He zones out to the TV and a beer while Linda helps the boys with their homework. It doesn’t make his brain stop churning.

If he went to a shrink and the other guys in the precinct found out…that would be…bad.

Opening up to a stranger, talking about $#!+…would be hellish.

He wishes his mom were still here; she’d tell him what to do.

He sighs and tells himself he’s just going to forget about everything, that way he won’t have to go to a shrink and spill his guts.


	9. Chapter 9

**A/N: This was going to be only about Danny fighting therapy; and then I went through the script for 1x18, watched a bit of it…and this is the result. I think I’m going to keep going through episodes, find mentions or hints of Danny’s PTSD, flesh them out**.

* * *

He tells Linda to forget about the shrink; he’ll just call the department shrink, bluff his way through the mandatory eval, get back to work.

But he keeps putting it off.

After all, he doesn’t need clearance from a shrink to work desk-duty. And until his finger heals in six weeks, that’s all he’ll be doing.

So he ignores his father’s weekly phone calls, pushes everything back down into that steel box labelled Things I Don’t Think About.

He puts in his forty hours a week of mind-numbing desk duty, teaches Sean how to hit a baseball.

Those…episodes…the ones Linda calls “panic attacks” and “flashbacks”….are getting worse, but he gets pretty good at telling when he’s about to have one, so he ducks into the bathroom if he’s at work, or the basement when he’s home.

The day before his appointment to get the splint off his broken finger, he calls “Amazing Grace,” requests his Fitness for Duty eval, and curses out the receptionist when she says the doc is booked straight for the next three weeks. “I can refer you to a Dr. Leslie Summers. It won’t be an FFDE, but it should be enough to clear you for duty.”

Simply because he wants to get back to work, he takes the referral, squeezes in the last appointment that Friday night.

“I’ve read your file, Detective Reagan. You had plenty of chances to get seen at the VA when you returned from Fallujah; that way, you could have an official diagnosis in your chart.”

“An official diagnosis of what, and how the hell would that help me?”

“PTSD, and it would help make sure you got services.”

He stands up, shaking with fury. “I don’t have PTSD, I don’t need help, and I sure as hell don’t want to sit around waiting for the VA for ten years to get told I’m crazy and be put on ten different pills that are gonna make me feel like shit! All that bureaucratic b.s. would get me in the Rubber Gun Squad for life!”

“And that is exactly my point; you’re overreacting to what is really a quite simple process. Perhaps you shouldn’t be carrying a weapon, with that much anger.”

He storms out, drives to the office of Amazing Grace, sits in the parking-lot until she leaves for the night. Then he walks up to her. “Dr. Meherin.”

“Detective Reagan, I heard you called to make an appointment; unfortunately, my schedule’s full.”

“I can’t…I gotta get cleared for duty, Doc! I can’t spend the rest of my life on desk-duty.”

She sighs. “I can give you twenty minutes. Start talking.”

He follows her back inside to her office, tells her how, yeah, he punched Cassidy but it was a heat-of-the-moment thing; he’s not like that, normally. Yeah, he’s had similar incidents, but they were really bad guys.

He clams up when she asks about Fallujah.

By some miracle, thirty minutes later, he’s driving home with the form clearing him for duty in his pocket, and another one being faxed to Gormley.

* * *

Two days later, he’s back at work, on night shifts; and two days after that, Linda is kidnapped by Salazar’s men.

He attacks the filing cabinet in the precinct until Jackie and Gormley pull him off. “Stand down, Reagan! Danny, stop!”

He swings at them, then realizes he’s crying.

He heads back to his house in the morning, goes over it with a fine-toothed comb, looking for any evidence CSU might have missed, anything that might tell him where they took Linda.

He finds nothing, and he kicks the wall. This is his worst nightmare. He doesn’t know how he’s going to survive without her.

He calls her phone, leaves a message for the kidnapper, tries to slow down his breathing when he realizes he’s hyperventilating.

But that just reminds him of Linda and he breaks down crying.

* * *

He’s running on no sleep and no food (other than three bites of the Chinese Jackie bought him) when they execute the raid on the second house. He hears a groan while he’s fighting with Bad Guy #5 (or is it 6 or 7?), and then he opens a door, and Linda is there, and he unties her and holds her close.

He doesn’t let go of her hand while the EMT’s check her out, declare her fine but dehydrated; and he drives home.

He doesn’t realize he’s crying until she starts rubbing his back. “Shhh, I’m here, Danny, I’m right here. You saved me, you found me, it’s okay.”

He cries into her hair. “We found…the Hummer, with a body; I thought…I thought…”

“I’m here. I knew you’d find me, Danny.”

He holds her until she falls asleep. As long as she’s here in his arms, what does he need a shrink for? All that…Michael Oates, and Fallujah and all that other crap…that means nothing in comparison to the threat of losing Linda. All he has to do is keep her safe, and he’ll be fine.


	10. Chapter 10

He takes a week off work after rescuing Linda. He gets a lecture from his father, but after they both had nightmares that first night, he doesn’t care.

_She’d fallen asleep first, exhausted from food and water deprivation and the sheer agony of being kidnapped._

Normally, he can fall asleep in less than five minutes…thanks to the Corps…but tonight, he’s afraid to close his eyes, afraid he’ll wake up and this will all be a dream and Linda will be gone.

He holds her a little more tightly, and she wakes up. “Danny, you’re squeezing me. What’s wrong?”

“Three days, Linda…I didn’t know if you were dead or alive…and when Dad called…to say they’d found…a car…with a body…a female body…I couldn’t drive. Jackie had to drive. I thought…I thought… And then Dad said it…it wasn’t you. I…”

He sits up, still holding her tightly with one arm, throws up in the trashcan next to the bed.

_He’s back on that road, running toward the Hummer, totally unsure how he’s going to go on without… If that’s her…he might as well kill himself now_.

A hand is rubbing his back. “Danny, I’m here. I’m right here.”

He blinks. “Why am I the one falling apart? You were kidnapped. I just…had to chase empty lead after empty lead…it’s not like I was the one who was….”

Her hands cup his face. “It’s okay, Danny. I was scared, too. I was having a nightmare just now, when I woke up because you were squeezing the breath of me. I’m still scared. But we’re together, and we’re gonna get through this, okay?”

He nods and kisses her.

* * *

His week off goes way too fast, and soon it’s back to work, to cases that are boring, run-of-the-mill stuff.

Until Jamie plays him a recording with Joe’s voice on it.


	11. Chapter 11

**A/N: There’s so little Linda in the episode, it was hard to write this, but I couldn’t skip the whole Blue Templar/finding out who killed Joe. On to season 2 after this chapter**.

He tells Linda the bare-bones, despite his dad’s orders that the op remain “in house—this house.” Otherwise she’ll worry about him. Which she probably should, because he’s not sleeping and he’s not eating, and if he’s realizing it, then Linda noticed days ago.

It’s not until the night they’ve arrested the Templar, when he’s finally home and collapses on his bed, shoes and badge still on, that he opens up.

“We got ‘em. Malevsky killed himself. The rest of the bastards…I took their shields, Dad arrested them. It’s over.”

“I’m sorry, babe,” she says, and holds him close. “Are you okay?”

He shrugs. “I don’t know. It was bad enough thinking Joe was killed in the line of duty by a criminal. But knowing that it was cops, dirty cops…that makes me sick.”

“You got ‘em, though, babe. It’s over. You can finally…”

“Move on? Forget what happened?” he snaps.

“That’s not what I was going to say, Danny. You can grieve now. You know the truth.”

He sighs. His head’s pounding. “It’s been two years, almost. Should be easier by now.”

“Don’t.” Her hands are cool on his throbbing head.  
  
“Don’t what?” he frowns.

“Don’t try to put a timeline on grief, Danny. Just because it’s been two years doesn’t mean it’s stopped hurting.”

“You know me and emotions, Linda.”

“I know. But it’s better than bottling it all up until you explode and put a perp’s head in the toilet.”

“Why are you still going on about the toilet?”

“Because I had to tell the boys yesterday that that wasn’t something they could go around telling their friends about. Sean’s suspended.”

“He didn’t…?”

“Yeah, he did. Jack double-dared him, so he’s suspended, too.”

“Great.” He shakes his head. “Pretty sure Joe and I did the same thing when we were their age.” He chuckles, then chokes back a sob. “I should have kept him safe.”

“Danny, you didn’t know.”

“I should have known. He was my kid brother; it was my job to keep him safe!”

He tunes out whatever comforting platitude she tells him next, and tries to blot out the mental image of Sonny Malevsky blowing his brains out.


	12. Chapter 12

**A/N: Episode Tag 2x02, “Friendly Fire.”**

**Also, I’m bringing Doc in early because…I love his character, and if Danny ever needed some anger management, it was in this episode.**

He’d tried to reassure Linda about the IA investigation, but later that night they’re in bed and he’s lying awake staring at the ceiling.

He sits up.

Linda stirs next to him, mumbles sleepily. “Danny?”

“Shhh, go back to sleep.”

She sits up. “You okay?”

He wants to lie, God how he wants to lie, but he doesn’t. “No. I shot a cop, who might not make it; I’m on modified; and IA is questioning every one who saw me. That woman on TV was right; I was out of control.”

“Why’d you get so pissed about the lawn and the dish and…?”

He shrugs. “Didn’t sleep well.”

“You had a nightmare,” she guesses. “What happened in Iraq, Danny, that you’re still having two or three nightmares a week?”

He tenses up. “This has nothing to do with Iraq, Linda! I shot a cop!”

“You just admitted to not sleeping well, which means you had a nightmare, which is why you were agitated that night.”

He throws the covers off, stands up, ready to bolt. “Whose side are you on? Because right now you’re sounding more like that IA bastard—or maybe a f-g shrink—than my damn wife!”

“I’m on your side, Danny. Always.”

He sinks back onto the bed. “If Tedesco dies…if he doesn’t make it…”

He takes a shuddering breath, jumps when her warm hand comes to rest on his bare shoulder. “Don’t do that to yourself. No what if’s, babe.”

He shakes his head. “I shot a cop, Linda. He’s unconscious.”

“And if he’d been a criminal, shot you, then you’d be the one lying in that bed. _You did your job, Danny_.”

“At what cost? IA’s talking to you, Jackie, Erin, Dad, the cantaloupe lady…and I’ll bet a year’s salary, every one of you gave the same story: I was agitated, mad, yelling…”

“We know what cantaloupe lady said because she was on TV; Jackie’s your partner, she’ll lie for you if it comes to that; I never told ‘em you were upset.”

He shakes his head, grabs his shirt from the floor where he’d tossed it earlier.

“Where are you going?”

“Back to the precinct. I can’t sleep. Might as well go through all the boxes of paperwork that are waiting on my desk.”

“Danny, please!”

* * *

He’s benched, and fuming, after the officers from the 2-9 found him outside the Lee’s house. There’s a letter on his keyboard which wasn’t there when he left five minutes ago to get his third cup of coffee.

It’s the mandatory “You fired your weapon, so now you have to spill your guts” letter, and it’s not one of the department shrinks, which is really weird. The sooner he gets this over with, the sooner the better.

He sighs, plasters on his best “Everything is Fine” face, and drives to the address.


	13. Chapter 13

He doesn’t get the whole confidentiality thing. Or the whole therapy thing.

Shrinks are supposed to keep your $#!+ confidential, right? He’s done his share of “trauma debriefings” with Meherin or one of the other NYPD shrinks—every one of whom swears those debriefings are confidential—but somehow he doubts that.

The fitness-for-duty evals…of course they’re not confidential, which is why a lot of guys have gotten really good at telling the department shrinks what they wanna hear.

So why is Gormley ordering him to go to a guy in private practice, if the shrink can’t tell Gormley what they talked about?

“Why am I here?” he asks, scrawling his name on the fourth—or is it fifth?—form.

“Your sergeant wanted you to do a trauma debriefing, preventative of post-traumatic stress disorder.”

He hates that word “disorder,” but he doesn’t trust this guy enough to tell him that. He stares at the desk. “Yeah. I’ve done those before. With the NYPD shrink, uh, therapist. Why is this one with you?”

“Your sergeant thought the confidentiality aspect might help you…open up a bit.”

He tenses at that. No way in hell is he opening up—to this guy, or any shrink, for that matter. “You’re telling me you’re not reporting back to Gormley?”

“No, I’m not reporting back to him—or anyone,” the younger man says, and meets his eyes squarely.

He relaxes a bit, but the next words out of Dawson’s mouth have him ready to bolt. “ _I read your file_ ,” Dawson continues, and he frowns. “You’ve had a lot happen in the past few years: _two tours in Fallujah, a brother who was killed in the line of duty_.”

He slams the last form down on the chair. “I have a file? I thought this was a debriefing for what happened with Officer Tedesco.”

“It is. But knowing about things in your past, triggers, will help me debrief you—and help you avoid future debacles like the one with IA.”

Debacles…triggers…is this guy for real?

He bolts to his feet. “If this is Gormley’s way of forcing me to talk about $#!+ I’m not ready to talk about, and I don’t want to talk about, then I’m done! Tell him I’ll go to Meherin—she’s closer, anyway.”

He’s halfway to the door when Dawson says, “Detective Reagan, anything you say in this office, stays within these walls—you have my word. And I won’t force you to talk about anything you’re not ready to talk about.”

He stops. Last shrink he’d stormed out of, the guy had told him he had to talk if he wanted to “get better”—whatever the hell that meant. “Then why bring it up if you’re not going to force me to talk about it? Trying to get a reaction out of me so you can tell Gormley I need anger management?”

“No. I’m sorry if that’s what it felt like. I wanted you to know that…if there were extenuating circumstances that led to you accidentally shooting Officer Tedesco, I want to know them.”

“’Extenuating circumstances’? Were you an English professor in a past life, Doc? You saw the stuff on the news; I was angry. It had nothing to do with anything in my past. I hadn’t slept well; I was frustrated; but that has nothing to do with why I shot Tedesco! He didn’t identify himself as a cop!”

“What was your nightmare about?”

How the…damn, he’d walked right into that, with the whole ‘I hadn’t slept well’ thing. “Stuff that’s in the past. I’m over it. Don’t need to talk about it.’

“Detective Reagan, I’ve been sitting in this chair long enough to know that the cop who says everything’s in the past and he doesn’t need to talk about it…is the guy who eventually ends up here because he doesn’t see a reason to keep living anymore. I want to help keep you from getting to that point.”

It sounds sincere, and he hesitantly walks back to his chair, slumps into it, and opens his mouth to tell the younger man about how he shot Tedesco.

* * *

He’s exhausted, and pissed, when he gets home.

“What happened?” Linda asks.

“Gormley ordered me to get a trauma debriefing—with that guy you recommended, Dawson. He’s halfway decent, but he wanted to talk about ancient history.”

She frowns, confused. “What do you mean?”

He grabs a beer from the fridge, heats up the dinner she’d left in the microwave, and sits down on the couch. “Fallujah, and Joe. I’m there to talk about Tedesco, not…that stuff.”

“Danny…”

He holds his hand up to stop her before she goes on the “ _Talking might help_ ” spiel. He’s not up to his usual retorts. He sort of feels like it actually might help, a little. But he’s not ready to tell her—or anyone, much less, heaven forbid, his dad—that.

“I did the debriefing, I passed, but I’m still a house mouse ‘till…the almighty PC’s office decides otherwise.”

He turns the game on, telling her he’s done talking for the night, eats his dinner, and drinks his beer.

**A/N: Should I bring Dawson in as a regular in this story, or only bring him back at 3x15 when Danny has anger management with him?**


	14. Chapter 14

**A/N: This takes an ALTERNATE REALITY version of 2x02. It is NOT canon-compliant. (The Muse is running amok today.)**

**Officer Lou Tedesco dies from the concussion. Danny thinks it's his fault.**

He’s on his way to visit Tedesco in the hospital when his phone rings. It’s Gormley, telling him to get back to the precinct forthwith.

He turns with a screech of tires and races back.

The Commissioner is there, and that’s never good, and then Gormley and the Commissioner—not his father, he’s not “Dad” in these moments—are taking him aside into Gormley’s office.

“Officer Tedesco succumbed to his injuries.”

There are words after that—”Not your fault…it was the concussion…from being hit over the head by Mrs. Lee with her son’s gun”—but none of them make any sense.

He lays his badge on the desk, pushes his way past them, and goes and sits in his car.

His gun is still on his hip.

Tedesco is dead.

He starts the car, peels out of the parking-lot, and drives.

He’s driving on auto-pilot, ignoring his phone, ignoring sirens…they’re not behind him, they can’t be, but of course they’re coming for him, he’s a cop-killer now…and he parks the car and blinks because he’s home now and he has no memory of the drive from the 5-4 to Staten Island.

He pulls his gun out of its holster, stares at it numbly.

Coming here was stupid.

He can’t kill himself in front of his house, what if the boys are home, or Linda?

He sets the gun on the dashboard, and sits there.

Lou Tedesco is dead, and it’s his fault.

He nearly jumps out of his skin when there’s a knock on the window.

He looks up.

It’s Linda.

She’s saying something, probably “Open the door,” but he can’t hear her over the roaring in his head.

He killed a cop.

She runs back inside, and then she’s using the spare key and unlocking the door.

He still sits there, waiting for her to yell. She’s been crying.

She unbuckles his seatbelt, crawls into his lap, and holds him. “I’m so sorry, honey.”

“I killed him,” he whispers.

“No, no, you didn’t. Danny, listen to me. It was the concussion. You didn’t kill him.”

Words.

The words don’t make any sense. Tedesco is dead and it’s his fault and how can Linda look at him?

He shudders.

“Come inside, Danny. The boys are at Mrs. Keenan’s.”

He shakes his head. He doesn’t deserve to go inside where there’s warmth and light and Linda comforting him.

She gets out of the car, pulls him to his feet.

He picks up his weapon, puts it back in his holster, and lets her lead him inside.

She parks him on the couch…he wants to snap at her, to tell her he can take care of himself, but that requires energy and words and talking, and he just can’t.

She goes into the kitchen and he’s alone and the gun on his hip is calling his name.

But he can’t kill himself in their living room.

Lou Tedesco, husband, father of a little boy and a baby on the way, is dead.

_Failure…don’t deserve to be a cop…should’ve killed yourself at the precinct…you’re a cop-killer, Reagan. Worst kind of traitor._

Linda is back, pushing something into his hand.

It’s a mug.

He takes a sip and nearly chokes on the tea, which has a generous slug of whiskey in it.

“Drink it, Danny.”

He drinks it slowly.

He feels Linda taking his gun out of the holster, hears her lock it in the safe.

The mug is empty soon, and he looks at her, feeling a little warmer and maybe even a little human.

He opens his mouth, but Linda puts her finger on his lips. “Listen to me, honey. Tedesco was hit over the head by Mrs. Lee. He had a concussion. That’s why he didn’t identify himself as a cop; he was disoriented. His brain started bleeding internally and that’s what killed him. It was not your fault.”

He shakes his head.

“IA…is still…they’re still gonna blame me…because of…” Because he was angry, because they know he was in a bad mood.

They’re going to blame him, and they should.

"No, they're not." Easy for her to say, she's not a cop.

He shivers, flinches when Linda wraps a blanket around him. “I want you to come upstairs and lie down. We’ll talk more when you’re not in shock.”

He follows her upstairs, and stares at the ceiling, and all he can hear is the gunshot, and the train passing by, and the sneering voices calling him a cop-killer.


	15. Chapter 15

**A/N: The first section is Danny’s nightmare**.

* * *

_He’s holding Lou Tedesco’s lifeless body in his arms, with the officer’s wife and son looking on accusingly. He tries desperately to stop the bleeding, to do CPR, but he’s frozen._

_“I’m disappointed in you, Daniel,” his father says. He hasn’t called him ‘Daniel’ in years—but that name still means he’s in major trouble. “You need to hand in your badge and your weapon. You’re no longer a member of the NYPD, effective immediately.”_

_They can’t pay the mortgage on Linda’s salary alone, so they lose the house. The boys have to go to public school._

_Jamie and his father stop speaking to him. He and Linda and the boys don’t go to Sunday dinner anymore. He’s disgraced_.

* * *

Danny bolts upright. It was a nightmare, just a nightmare. He’s in bed, Linda asleep next to him. His stomach is churning. He throws off the covers, stumbles to the bathroom, and throws up everything he’d eaten that day.

He jumps when a hand rubs his back. “Easy, it’s just me. You’re okay, babe.”

He flushes, throws up bile, flushes again. She’s going to hate him when she hears about his nightmare.

“Can I rub your back?” she asks. Crap, he scared her and now she’s afraid to touch him.

He nods, tries to focus on the nonsense patterns she’s making on his back. He shivers. It feels like she’s writing “ILY”—“I love you”—on his back, and he takes a deep breath, trying to calm down.

“Fallujah?” she asks, and he’s tense again.

He shakes his head, leans his head on the cool toilet. “Tedesco. Dreamt that he died in my arms. With his wife and kid looking on. Dad made me leave the NYPD, we lost the house because I didn’t have a job; Jamie and Dad stopped talking to me. Lost everything because of one split-second when I was pissed at the world and shot a cop.”

He takes a shuddering breath, flinches when she wraps her arms around him. “That’s a helluva nightmare, babe. I’m sorry.”

He nods, leans into her even though he’s afraid she’ll push him away because how can she not see that he’s not worth her love?

He doesn’t realize he’s spoken aloud, and he jumps when she shakes him. “Don’t you ever say that again, Danny! Don’t you even think it! You are worth my love! You’re not worthless. I love you. Even if that nightmare were true—I would still be right here. And even if…if it were your fault…your family wouldn’t turn their backs on you. And if they did…the boys and I are always gonna be right here, Danny. Always. Okay?”

He nods, exhausted by ten million conflicting emotions. He sits up a little, lets her pull him close. “Sorry I woke you. What time is it?”

“It’s okay. Almost midnight.”

Meaning he hadn’t even gotten an hour of sleep.

“Damn. I’m sorry.”

“It’s okay, Danny. Do you think you can go back to sleep now?”

He shakes his head. “I need to make a phone call.”

* * *

He doesn’t like making calls this late—they’re never good news—but he needs reassurance. Damn him for being so weak.

His dad picks up on the second ring. “Danny? What’s wrong?”

He sighs, ready to hang up. “Sorry I woke you.”

“Are you okay? Is it Linda? The boys?”

“We’re fine, Dad.” He sighs. “I’m sorry, this was stupid. I shouldn’t have called.”

“Danny, what’s wrong?”

“What are the chances…it wasn’t the concussion that killed Tedesco? That it was me, my bullets? Making me a…” He chokes on the words.

“Son, you’re not a cop-killer. I talked to his doctors. His gunshot wounds were healing well. That is not what killed him.”

“And if it had been? You’d be locking me up and throwing away the key and never speaking my name again.”

“Danny, if that’s all you think of us, of your family…you’re the only one, and I’m sorry you learned nothing from years of family dinners. The concussion backs up your statement, and Detective Curatola’s statement, that Officer Tedesco did not identify himself as a cop. You did not shoot a fellow officer in cold blood, Danny. And if it had been the wounds that killed him—you acted in self-defense, as you had been trained.”

“I killed a cop,” he whispers brokenly.

“Did you know he was a cop? Did you see a badge, a uniform? Did he identify himself?”

"No."

“You’re not a cop-killer, Danny. You shot a man, by accident—a man whom you thought was a criminal, who could have endangered your life or your partner’s life, or the lives of the people on that street corner with you. You didn’t know he was a cop. You are not a cop-killer. You’re my son. And you will always, always be welcome at family dinner. No matter what.”

He doesn’t believe that…surely there’s some line that, if crossed, would disbar from him from the family dinner table…but his dad’s words have lessened the knot in his chest, and he’s suddenly exhausted.

He clears his throat roughly. “Thanks, Dad. G’night.”

He hangs up, trudges up the stairs, and after ten minutes of trembling, he turns to Linda and breaks down in her arms like he hasn’t cried since…he doesn’t know when.


	16. Chapter 16

**A/N: Episode Tags: 2x02 and 2x03**

* * *

He goes back to work two days later. As far as he knows, he’s still on modified.

There’s a file folder on his desk, with a note in his dad’s handwriting: “Confidential. For Your Eyes Only.”

He takes it into the empty interrogation room.

It’s the autopsy report for Officer Tedesco. He’s glad he’s alone when he sees the pictures of the officer’s wounds.

Highlighted in that yellow-green godawful ugly color his dad likes to use to highlight important points, are the words: “Official cause of death was intracranial hemorrhage caused by the concussion…the two gunshot wounds did not contribute to Officer Lou Tedesco’s death.” He wonders what strings his dad pulled to get that wording put in there. Not that his dad would pull strings, but somehow it feels like that’s exactly what he did.

He puts the file down on the table, sighs.

At that moment Gormley opens the door. “Reagan, stop using department property for your own personal uses. I don’t want to see you in here unless you’ve got a perp. Get outta here, you and Curatola caught a case.”

“Thought I was on modified, Sarge.”

“You’ve been cleared for full duty. Here you go.” Gormley hands him his badge and his gun, and he wonders briefly how Sarge got his gun; he’d taken it home with him two days before.

He shakes his head at himself, and locks the file in his desk drawer before leaving to go to the crime scene.

* * *

By the time everything is wrapped up after the hostage situation at Steadfast Bank, it’s almost 1 a.m., way too late to drive home to Staten Island. He calls Linda to tell her that he’s going to crash in the dorm. She’s been crying, that’s obvious, but she won’t tell him what’s wrong, just asks if he’ll make it to Mass and family dinner.

She’s tense next to him during Mass and dinner, and even after their little talk in the kitchen, he knows he needs to talk with her.

So once the boys are in bed, he sits down on the couch, plucks the book out of her hands…she wasn’t reading it, anyway; it’s upside-down…and pulls her close.

She tenses. “Don’t.”

“Don’t what? I’m trying to apologize, Linda.”

“Don’t try to tell me that the boys and I are the first thing you think about before you do each and every one of those stupid little stunts—running into buildings with armed gunmen, and into banks full of robbers, and chasing perps down! It’s like you don’t care anymore!”

“I don’t care about what?” he asks, and his mouth is suddenly dry as cotton.

“Whether you live or die. You could’ve died, Danny, and you did it anyway.”

“That’s what the job is, Linda.”

She smacks him in the chest. “I know what the job is! And maybe years ago, before your second tour, you really cared about me and the boys and thought about us before chasing down a maniac with a gun; but now, all you care about is catching the bad guy—regardless of whether you’ve got a 90% chance of dying or not!”

He rubs the back of his neck. “Billy Flood wasn’t gonna shoot me, Linda. And I don’t have a death wish, Linda.”

“Really? So—waltzing into a bank with an armed gunman—without your gun. What do you call that, Danny?”

“Doing my job.”

“You could have died, Danny! Don’t you get it?”

He sighs, pulls away from her, elbows on his knees, head in his hands. “Yeah, I get it, Linda. But if it was the price I had to pay, my life for Billy’s…” He chokes a little. “I was sweating bullets, babe, and it wasn’t the no a/c in there. Trying to remember if I’d told you ‘I love you’ before I left for work. If I’d hugged the boys.”

“You did.”

“So…you’re not mad at me anymore?”

“I wasn’t mad, Danny; I was terrified! That you were going to come out of that bank in a body bag!”

Crap, now she’s crying again. This is not going as planned.

He reaches for her, but she shoves him away. “And what the hell do you mean ‘if it was the price you had to pay’? What the hell are you trying to atone for?”

Before he can deflect, she reaches up, kisses him fiercely. “What the hell happened on your second tour, Danny? You weren’t reckless like this before then.’

He kisses her back a little more passionately. She’s mentioned his second tour twice in five minutes, and that’s not good. He can’t talk about it, and he needs to distract her somehow.

She stops the kiss before it can go any further. “I know what you’re trying to do, Danny. Talk to me, babe.”

He shakes his head. “I meant it, Linda. You and the boys are the first thing I think about, before I go into any warehouse or bank or start chasing a perp.”

“And do you ever think about what’s gonna happen to us if you come out of that warehouse or bank or alley in a body bag?”

He hadn’t been able to answer her earlier; he still can’t now.

He swallows, chokes on the lump that’s suddenly grown in his throat. “I…I’m sorry I scared you, babe. I…I can’t promise I’ll stop running toward the guys with guns, but I’ll try to…be a little more careful, tell you I love a little more often. Okay?”

She kisses him, and he lets her take it as far as she wants that night.


	17. Chapter 17

**A/N: Totally AU, no episode tag, unless you count the brief reference to 2x03.**

**I guess it’s loosely based on the coma that Agent Gibbs is on in NCIS 3x23 and 3x24**.

* * *

“It hasn’t even been two weeks, Frank! He promised me! He promised me he’d stop doing reckless things like that!”

Frank grabs her by the shoulders, halting her nervous pacing back-and-forth in the hospital waiting room. “What did he promise you, Linda? What are you talking about?”

She scrubs her face with the back of her hand. “After…after that pigheaded stunt he pulled, waltzing into the bank, he promised…he promised me he’d be less reckless. And now…dammit, Danny!... now he’s in a coma because he waltzed into a warehouse like he’s still a freaking superhero Marine, and the explosion, and, I…I don’t know if I’ll talk to him again.”

“Shh, of course you will, Linda, he’s gonna be fine.”

She pulls away from her father-in-law. “You. Do Not. Know. That. Frank Reagan. You. Are. Not. A. Doctor. I heard what the actual doctor, the neurosurgeon said. He has brain damage. He might not know us when he wakes up.”

She collapses in tears in Henry’s arms.

* * *

One week later, she’s dozing by his bedside when alarms start blaring and Danny starts thrashing around. A doctor and several nurses rush in, one moves her out of the room; and then they’re taking the breathing tube out and Danny’s coughing.

When they finally let her back in the room, he looks at her, eyes wide. “Where…where’s the baby?” he asks, reaches for her stomach.

She frowns. “What baby, Danny?”

“Sean. You’re 7 months pregnant.”

He’s hallucinating.

“Danny, what year is it?”

He frowns. “2003. They…they sent me home from Fallujah because you were having complications.”

O dammitall. This is not how she wanted Danny to have to actually process whatever horrible things he saw in Fallujah.

Ignoring everything she learned in nursing school about coma patients and how to reorient them, she looks him in the eye. “Danny, babe, Sean’s 8. You were in Fallujah when he was born. You came home when he was about 3 months old for one month of R&R, then you went back to Fallujah for 13 months.”

His eyes widen, emotions flashing across his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m going back to sleep, can you leave me alone, please?”

He turns away from her.

She covers her mouth with her hand and flees the room. She would have kept running until she was home in Staten Island if Henry hadn’t blocked her way and held her while she sobbed.

* * *

A week later they’ve finally managed to track down his old Marine buddy, Cliff Reacher. Cliff had been in a different unit, but they’d bonded over…whatever happened over there that Danny still won’t talk about it.

Cliff talks with Danny for two hours.

When he comes out, he looks like he’s in pain. “Danny…remembers everything. He’s in shock, Linda. Go…he needs you.”

Danny is on his side, turned away from the door, gripping the sheets in both his fists. Linda rubs his back, and he lashes out.

She backs away from him. “Easy, easy, it’s just me. It’s Linda. You’re okay, babe.”

“They’re all dead,” he says in a choked voice. “I’m the only one…why me? I should have died with them. Why am I still here?”

“Because Jack and Sean and I need you. Because Jamie couldn’t handle losing another brother.” She wants to slap herself the minute the words come out of her mouth. If he thinks it’s 2003, then of course he doesn’t remember…

He turns onto his back, looks at her wide-eyed. “Joe…?”

She moves toward him again, sits on the edge of the hospital bed, puts a careful hand on his head. “Joe…died two years ago, babe. You and Frank and Jamie took down the dirty cops who killed him a couple months ago.”

Danny shakes his head, grabbing her wrist. “No, no…”

He tries to sit up, and alarms start blaring as his heartrate and blood pressure spike dangerously. He grabs his head in pain. Linda holds his hand. “Shhh, I’m sorry, Danny. I’m so sorry. You need to calm down, babe.”

He struggles against her, trying to get out of bed. A nurse rushes in; a million medical terms Linda knows by heart are being shouted, none of them making any sense to her in this moment; and then a nurse puts something in his IV, and Danny goes limp.

* * *

When he wakes up a few hours later, he’s quiet. He submits to her hugs and questions, and his family’s, passively; answers them in monosyllables, insists he’s not in pain and just wants to get home. He doesn’t even react when the doctor says he needs to talk to a psychologist before he can go home.

She cooks his favorite meals, and he dutifully chokes down a few bites, then pushes the Tupperware containers away.

* * *

Danny comes home three weeks after waking up from the coma, and it’s worse than when he first got back from his second tour. Physically, he’s fine; his memory’s returning slowly, at least about Linda and the boys and his family; but emotionally…the only word Linda can think of is “empty.” Her hands are shaking as she puts her makeup on.

She goes downstairs to tell him and the boys to stop wrestling, that it’s time to leave for church.

Jack and Sean are standing in front of the door, staring at their dad.

Danny’s on the floor, his head in his hands. He’s trembling.

“Are you okay?” she asks the boys.

Sean nods. “We were arm-wrestling Daddy, and he toppled over, and…” He looks up at Jack.

“He just froze, like we were playing tag and he couldn’t move. I tickled him but he didn’t notice,” Jack says, eyes wide with fear.

“Go upstairs, boys,” she says quietly.

“But Mom, we’ll be late,” Jack starts.

She shakes her head at him. “Go upstairs, put on other non-wrinkly shirts, and brush your hair. I’ll come get you when we’re ready to leave.”

They leave, and she quickly sits down on the floor in front of Danny, in his line of vision but far enough away he can’t hurt her. “Danny, babe, can you hear me?”

He doesn’t move.

“Danny, you’re safe. You’re at home with me and the boys.”

He still doesn’t move.

“Babe, can you look at me?”

He lifts his head, his eyes widening. “L…Linda?”

“Yeah. You’re safe.”

“Jack, Sean…are they okay? I didn’t hurt them?”

“They’re fine. Worried about you, but fine. What happened?”

He shakes his head, sitting back against the couch. “I…I don’t remember.”

“Don’t give me that, Danny. What happened?”

“I…we were roughhousing, and, all of a sudden, it wasn’t Jack and Sean; I was…somewhere else.” She looks at him, and he sighs. “Okay, dammit, I was back in Fallujah, holding a kid in my arms, a kid who’d just been blown to bits, and….”

A choked sob escapes him, and he starts shaking. “Can I touch you?” she asks.

He nods, and she rubs his back. She wants to hug him, but she also doesn’t want to make him feel trapped. “Shhh, you’re okay, the boys are fine. I’m fine, I’m right here. We’re gonna get you some help, okay, babe?”

He nods, sniffles into her chest. “What’s happening to me? I was fine…”

“That concussion rattled your brain a little, and it’s bringing back memories you repressed. You’re gonna be okay, babe.”

She helps him off the floor, and upstairs to their bedroom, calls Jamie to take the kids to family dinner, calls Frank and asks him to keep the boys overnight.

She needs to talk to Danny without little ears eavesdropping.


	18. Chapter 18

A/N: Sean was born in 2003. In my headcanon, Danny returned from Fallujah early 2005. This chapter takes place sometime after season 2 episode 3, so it’s 2011.

* * *

“Are you okay, Daddy?” Sean asks when Linda corrals them to say goodbye to their father before Jamie takes them to Mass.

Danny blinks, pulls the boys close. “Yeah, yeah. I…I’m sorry I scared you. I just…got a little scared myself. I’m okay.”

She wants to slap him for the lie, because he most definitely is not okay; but she also has no clue how to explain PTSD to a 10-year-old and an 8-year-old, so she lets it slide.

“Can we still wrestle?” Jack asks, giving her puppy-dog eyes.

“Tonight, before bed. Now get outta here, I heard Uncle Jamie ring the doorbell.”

The boys hug him tight, and he whispers “Love you” back to them.

Linda talks quietly and quickly to Jamie, then goes into the kitchen to run the dishwasher.

When she walks back to their bedroom, Danny’s staring at his dog-tags, and that scares her. Since about a year after he got back, she’s never seen them outside the lockbox where he keeps his off-duty weapon.

He hasn’t noticed her yet, and she runs back downstairs, opens the closet, enters the code for his lockbox—the date of their first kiss. His weapon’s there, and she relaxes just a little.

She goes back upstairs, and he looks at her. His eyes are dead. “Hey.”

“Hey. How you holding up?”

He shrugs. “Head hurts like a b!+ch. Are the boys okay?”

“They’re fine. Jamie took them to Mass and family dinner, and your dad’s gonna keep them for the night, take them to school.”

“Why?”

“Because we need to talk without little ears around.”

He sighs heavily, shoulders slumping. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you, or them.”

“I know, babe, I know. So do the boys—you did good reassuring them.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve had concussions before, bad ones. Nothing that’s rattled me like this, though. Am I losing it, Linda? Is Sarge gonna force me to go to a shrink, make me turn in my weapon? Are you gonna make me go to a shrink?”

“No, honey, you’re not losing it. And…I know why the department makes those trauma debriefings mandatory, but forcing you to go to therapy, to talk if you’re not ready, would just do more harm than good. You need to decide to go on your own.”

“You think I should go,” he says dully.

“I think the coma you were in for a week, waking up thinking you just got back from Fallujah, has brought a lot of stuff to the forefront, stuff you shoved down after you got home. I saw what you were like the first year after you got home.”

“What…what was I like?” he asks, and lies down.

It’s an honest question; he doesn’t remember. She lies down next to him, pulls him close. “Is this okay?” she asks. She doesn’t want him to feel trapped. He nods.

She runs her fingers through his short hair, gently caresses the bump on his head. “You were… hurting. Like you are now. But you were trying to push it all down, deny it. You went right back to work…crazy-long hours. You were getting reprimanded, it felt like every other week, for roughing up perps. You’d play with the boys, but you wouldn’t do the wrestling and tugs-of-war they begged for. You…you weren’t sleeping. You’d lie there, after we’d made love, until you thought I was asleep, then go downstairs and stare at the TV. I’d call your name and you didn’t hear me. Or I’d find you curled up somewhere having a flashback.”

He curses vehemently. “How the hell did I function if I was that bad?”

“I don’t know, babe. When you were at work, it came out in anger; when you were home, it came out in insomnia and flashbacks; when we were out in public…you seemed fine, and I almost could forget that you weren’t yourself at home. It’s possible you were dissociating; I don’t know.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. “Sounds like I put you through hell.”

“No, babe, you didn’t. You were…in pain.”

“You think all that crap is gonna start happening again, since my head’s all screwed up and part of me feels like I just got home from my second tour?”

“I don’t know, babe.”

He sighs. “You think I should talk to a shrink.”

“I think it would help. But if… if you’re not ready to talk to a professional, you can always, always talk to me. About anything. I won’t judge you, I won’t make fun of you, I won’t…well, I’ll _try_ not to cry.”

That last is a lie; she’s crying quietly right now, and hopes he doesn’t notice.

He lets out a deep, shuddering breath. “I don’t even know where to start.”

“Why don’t you start with why you’re the only guy from your unit who came home?” she asks, not realizing that that is the worst topic she could have chosen.

He sits up suddenly, leaves the room; and she can hear the thud of him hitting the punching bag.

She sits there and cries for him, and wonders what it’s going to take for him to actually open up and talk to her.


	19. Chapter 19

He stays in the basement long enough that he can smell dinner cooking. Linda’s making that roast chicken he loves, and his mouth is watering. He’d hit the bag till his hands were bleeding…gloves were for sissies, and pain keeps him grounded…and now he’s staring at the one picture he has of him and his buddies.

He stuffs it into his pocket when he hears Linda coming down the stairs. “Babe, are you okay?”

No sense lying to her. “No.”

She comes around the corner slowly, like she’s afraid of him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers.

“What are you apologizing for? You didn’t hurt me.”

He holds his hands out, and she gasps. “Danny, you have got to start wearing gloves or wrapping your hands.”

He shakes his head. “I can’t…talk about what happened to them. Can we just drop it?”

Linda reaches up to pat his face. “No, let me share it with you. You’re…Danny, you’re crying.”

He hadn’t realized his face was wet. He pulls away, scrubs his face with the back of his knuckles until she grabs his hand. “Stop it. You’re just smearing blood all over your face. It’s okay to cry, Danny.”

“Why do you want to know what happened, Linda? So you can cry and feel sorry for me? So you can justify how screwed up I am? So you can drag me to a shrink who’s gonna put me in the psych ward?” He hates himself for snapping at her, but he’s so ** tired.

“No, Danny. I want to know because I love you, and because you’re in pain, and marriage…marriage is about sharing each other’s pain. Please let me help you carry this.”

He wants to bolt, but his head is pounding, the room is spinning, and he thinks he’s gonna puke. “We were ambushed. They…”

He can’t get the next words out, because all of a sudden, his chest is tight and he can’t breathe.

He claws at his neck, thinking he’s still in his church clothes, but he’d ditched the tie and dress shirt when he started hitting the bag.

A hand is rubbing his back. “Danny, breathe.”

“Can’t,” he gasps.

"Yes, you can. It just feels like you can't. You’re having a panic attack."

She is rubbing his chest so hard it hurts.

"No, can't…"

"Shhh, you can breathe, it just feels like you can't. Try to take a deep breath, Danny. With me, okay? In through your nose, and out through your mouth."

She holds one of his hands to her face, the other to her chest, takes exaggerated breaths in and out.

He takes a wheezing, rattling breath. _You sound like you're dying, Reagan_.

"That's it, Danny, keep going. Easy."

Another gasping breath.

Several more.

She rubs his back, and though he wants to push her away…she doesn’t need to know his demons…he can’t. “C’mere,” she says, and he lets her pull him close so he’s lying on the floor with his head in her lap.

He takes a few shuddering breaths as she runs her fingers through his hair. "Sorry."

"Shhh, it's okay, you're okay, Danny."

He shakes his head, regrets it. The headache he’d been trying to ignore all morning pounces again, and he groans. “No, I’m not. What just happened?”

“You had a panic attack, babe. You ever had something like that happen before?”

He wants to lie, God how he wants to lie, but there’s no point now. “Yeah. When…when our chaplain told me they were all dead.” He can’t tell her that he saw eight of the guys die.

“I’m so sorry, Danny.”

He takes a shuddering breath, lets it out. “I don’t know why they didn’t kill me too.”

“I can’t tell you that, babe, but I’m glad you’re alive—because the boys and I need you, because your family couldn’t have handled losing you and Joe both, because you have saved hundreds of lives here doing your job.”

He nods, pushes himself up. He’s hit his limit of dealing with emotions for the day, and he stuffs everything back down, forces himself to talk around the lump in his throat. “I need a shower, you coming?”

After their shower, and watching Sunday Mass on the Catholic channel on TV, he goes upstairs and lies down. He’s been staring at the ceiling for what feels like hours, listening to Linda clattering around in the kitchen, when she comes in.

He rolls over to face her. “I’m not going back to that shrink, or any other shrink—not unless it’s mandatory. But maybe…if you’re sure…would you…?”

He’s trying to ask if she’ll listen, when and if he’s able to bring himself to talk.

He knows she thinks he needs therapy, and there’s like a 47% chance she might be right; but if he can’t even talk about Fallujah to his *** wife, how is he gonna talk about it to a complete stranger?  
  


She’s quiet for a minute, and he thinks he hears her sob. Great. She’s going to say no, to tell him he needs to man up and deal with it by himself.

Then she lies down next to him and holds him fiercely, like she’s afraid he’s going to disappear. “Of course, Danny. I’ll listen, whenever you need to talk. Just…promise me you’ll come to me; you won’t continue bottling it all up. Please. I can handle it.”

Talking about it is contrary to every tenet of being a Reagan, a Marine, and an NYPD detective. But ever since his concussion, the memories of Fallujah have been haunting him again, and he’s doing a lousy job of dodging them, and he’s not sure he has any more strength to dodge.

“I promise,” he whispers, and falls asleep in her arms.


	20. Chapter 20

**A/N: Many thanks to @visionsofdazzlingrooms for her help with this chapter!**

**TW: suicidal ideation**

* * *

He goes back to work a week later, and it’s just his luck this is his week to work nights. Linda’s tearful when he kisses her goodbye.

“Babe, I’ll be fine. My head’s fine, you heard the doc Friday, I’m all good.”

“It’s not that I’m worried about; nothing good ever happens after midnight. Please be careful.”

Between paperwork and a recalcitrant suspect, he doesn’t get home till 5 a.m., putting that shift at 16 hours long. He’s not even sure that’s legal.

He collapses next to Linda.

Tuesday and Wednesday nights, he has fourteen-hour tours. When Linda leaves to take the boys to school, he goes downstairs—he hadn’t been able to fall asleep since getting home at 5 anyway, skips breakfast, and drinks two beers instead.

Thursday, he’s off; he sleeps the day away, makes himself a burnt omelet while Linda’s at the store, and washes it down with the last two beers.

He has a day tour Friday. Sarge lets him go early, and he texts Linda that he’s picking up a pizza on his way home. She replies that the boys are at a sleepover.

He gets home almost an hour later than usual.

He frowns when Linda isn’t in the living room waiting for him. “Babe, I’m home!” he calls. “Sorry I’m late; they’re doing road work on every major street.”

There’s no response, and he puts the pizza in the oven to keep it warm, goes upstairs. Linda’s sitting on the floor crying, holding something. He sits down next to her. “What’s wrong, babe?”

She holds out two pictures. One is their wedding picture; one is a candid shot of them hugging when he returned from his second tour. Even he can see the difference in his face, his eyes, between those two pictures.

”Did I…miss our anniversary?” he asks, worried.

She shakes her head silently through tears.

He puts the pictures on the floor, pulls her close.

“You’re scaring me, Danny.”

“What’d I do?”

“You’re not sleeping again; you about jumped out of your skin when the Baldini’s car backfired yesterday, and I know it wasn’t the boys who finished that six-pack in two days.”

“I’m not sleeping because two of our neighbors are getting their roofs fixed; I can’t sleep with that ruckus. What do you want me to do, Linda?”

“I’m not asking you to snap your fingers and be better. I’m asking you to admit you have PTSD, to admit you need help. I told you I’d listen if you’d talk, but all you’re doing is turning into a workaholic again—and an alcoholic. Maybe talk to me instead of hitting the bottle.”

He rubs the back of his neck. “What are you scared of?”

“That you’re going to come home one day when I’m not here, and hit the bottle before you put your weapon away, and…”

She starts sobbing hard. He pulls her in tight, kisses the top of her head. “If you’re that worried… pour the beer out. I’ll talk, I promise I’ll talk to you.”

She looks up at him. “I already did—pour out the beer, I mean.”

He’s about to apologize, when the smoke alarm goes off.

They race downstairs.

He’d put the pizza in the oven to keep it warm, and accidentally turned the oven to “broil” instead of “warm.” The pizza is beyond saving.

He takes the batteries out of the smoke alarm, then throws the burnt pizza in the garbage can outside, while Linda opens all the windows and orders a pizza for delivery.

He goes to bed after choking down one slice of pizza, never mind that it’s not even 8 p.m. Linda lies down next to him. “What’s wrong, Danny?”

He picks at one of the scabs on his hand from his fight with the punching-bag the other day. “I…I wasn’t late because of the road-work. After I ordered the pizza, I…”

He takes a shaky breath. Damn, this is hard. “I…stopped by the old ice-skating rink, where we had our second date. Sat there for, I don’t know, forty minutes, with my gun…I was going to kill myself. Then the pizza place called and asked where the hell I was, so I…picked up the pizza and came home.”

He hears her sob, but she doesn’t say anything, and he’s grateful, because if she says anything, he might not get the words out. “I…I scared myself today, Linda. I’m…I’m really not doing well. I…I think I need help.”


	21. Chapter 21

**A/N: I had one idea for this chapter, and then the Muse came and wrecked it. Y'all are gonna hate Linda for a while, but it gets better.**

* * *

He's hurt when Linda doesn't say anything, just kisses him, then gets up and leaves the room.

He can hear her moving around in the hall closet. She's probably checking that his weapon is still there—which it is, he'd put it there when he got home.

He told her he's suicidal, he asked for help…and she left.

He can't do this without her, he can't live without her, he can't…

He's alone, and the air's getting heavy, and he tears his tie off, throws it across the room.

He's struggling with the buttons on his shirt when Linda comes back in the room, rushes to him, and begins undoing the buttons that are strangling him.

She rubs his back, talks him through that breathing exercise again—freaking breathing, he's been breathing just fine on his own his whole life…well except for those few times he got shot—and all he can think is: _You left_.

When he can breathe again, he says quietly, "I told you I freaking almost killed myself today, I told you I needed help…and you LEFT."

She rubs his back. "I'm sorry, Danny. I…I wanted to make sure your gun was locked up, and I changed the code to the lockbox."

"You left," he says again.

"I'm sorry. I won't leave you again. I'm here now, I'm right here, babe."

He closes his eyes, tries to focus on her arms holding him.

"I love you, Daniel Fitzgerald Reagan. So much. Tell me you know that."

" _You love me_ " is drowned out by " _You left_ ," but he nods. "Yeah, I…I know."

"Good. I'm proud of you, babe."

That confuses him. "For what? I just told you I almost killed myself. What's there to be proud of?"

"You didn't do it, you came home to me, you _talked_ to me, you admitted you needed help."

"Why did you leave?"

"Because I wanted to make sure you couldn't get to your gun. I wanted to make sure it was locked up. I'm sorry. I shouldn't have left."

He can't get past the fact that she got up and walked away from him right after he told her he needed help.

Even when she makes love to him, coaxes him downstairs for a cup of chamomile tea, talks him into taking a bath with her…all he can think is: "You left." He doesn't react to anything she says or does; he feels…numb.

* * *

The following morning finds him and Linda sitting on the couch in a freaking shrink's office.

He lets Linda tell the shrink—it's that Dawson guy he'd spoken to a few weeks ago—what happened.

When asked for his version of things, he ignores Dawson and talks to Linda instead, but without looking at her. "I told you I was suicidal, I told you I needed help, and you walked out of the room, Linda."

"How did that make you feel, Detective Reagan?" the shrink asks.

"Hurt. And lost. And…alone," he whispers, still talking to Linda.

"Why do you think you felt that way?"

And that is why he hates shrinks…well, therapists, psychologists, whatever-the-hell they are. Like he knows why he felt that way. He just did. What's the big deal?

Wait. He's the one making a big deal of it by not being able to get over the fact that Linda had LEFT.

He curses quietly, stands up. "This is a waste of time. I'm done here."

He hasn't even taken one step toward the door before Linda's blocking his path. "Please, Danny. Don't storm out like this. Come sit down, talk to me."

He sits back down, relaxes a bit when the shrink says, "Forget that I'm here, Detective Reagan. Tell Linda why you felt hurt and lost and alone when she left."

Forget the shrink is there. Like forgetting about the pink elephant in the room. He scoffs quietly.

He looks Linda in the eyes for maybe the first time since she came back in their bedroom after LEAVING. "I…I thought you were done with me being weak and pathetic instead of the tough Marine you married. I thought you were gonna call the loony bin and have me admitted. I mean, I'd just freaking told you I was suicidal. I…"

"No, Danny. I wouldn't do any of these things. I just wanted to make sure your gun was secure."

Before Danny can say anything, Dawson-The-Shrink asks, "Mrs. Reagan, why was checking Danny's lockbox your first reaction?"

"He had just told me he'd spent forty minutes with his gun at his head. I wanted to make sure his gun was secure," she says again.

"Why didn't you ask him?"

"I…was afraid he wouldn't be honest with me. Or if I pushed him further, he'd shut down. That's… what he does when…things get emotional."

"You thought it was a good idea to leave him alone after he told you he was suicidal?"

"I wasn't thinking, okay? I…I messed up. I'm sorry, Danny."

If she apologizes one more time, he's going to scream.

"Apology accepted," he mutters.

Ten more minutes of shrink talk, and they leave.

* * *

"You're still mad at me," she says when they're almost home.

"I'm not mad. It…hurt when you left."

"I'm sorry," she whispers, and he pulls the car over, hits the steering wheel with his hand.

"Stop saying that! It's not helping!"

"How can I…undo what I did?"

"You can't, dammit. Just…don't leave. Ask me where my gun is if you're that worried about it. Just…please don't leave."

He spends the rest of the day numbly doing her honey-do list, watching some sappy movie with her, and wondering how he got from the broken man he was when he came home from his second tour; to the first-grade detective who is FINE, thank you very much; to…whatever-the-hell this post-concussion Danny Reagan is.


	22. Chapter 22

A/N: I had the first third of this chapter written, up to Danny getting pulled over, and the last third, Danny getting home. Many thanks to @visionsofdazzlingrooms for her suggestion, which helped me write the middle third.

* * *

He’s been at his desk all of five minutes Monday when Gormley says, “Reagan, my office.”

Wondering what he’s done now, he follows the boss to his office.

“You’re back on modified assignment. You know the drill.”

He hands over his gun and badge. “Sarge, honest, I didn’t do anything.”

Gormley looked him in the eyes. “I got a call from a Dr. Alex Dawson telling me that you’re suicidal. You can’t be full duty till you’re cleared. You’re a house mouse, Danny.”

He punches the filing cabinet. “Dammit! That sonofa…! He never said he would tell you! I thought the whole damn session was confidential!”

“He’s obligated to report when a patient is suicidal, Danny.”

He kicks the desk. “I’m not his patient! Linda just…freaked out and made me talk to him.”

He storms out of the precinct, goes to his car, and peels out of the parking-lot.

He looks at his phone at a red light, sees nine texts from Gormley. He’s suspended. Damn.

* * *

He drives mindlessly until blue lights flash behind him. He glances down, sees he’s going almost 60 in a 45 zone, and puts his blinker on. He slows down, pulls over, rolls down his window.

“Excuse me, Sir…Danny?”

O crap, he’s been pulled over by his kid brother.

“What’s wrong, Danny?”

“Nothing, just got some bad news.”

“Is it Linda? The boys?”

“Can you give me the ticket and get the…” he was going to ask for Jamie to leave him alone, but those aren’t the words that come out of his mouth—“Can you talk for a few minutes?”

Jamie talks to Renzulli for a minute, then gets in the passenger seat. “This is cutting into my lunch break, so you owe me a hot dog later. What’s going on?”

He can’t look at his kid brother. “I was just put on modified.”

“Why? What’d you do?”

He wants to lash out, ask why it has to be something he did, why he’s always the bad guy. But he’s too tired to lash out. “Almost ate my gun Friday night.”

Jamie punches him in the arm. “Danny, don’t you dare…” He stops, gives him a once-over. “You’re not joking.”

He shakes his head, suddenly exhausted. “No. No, I’m not.”

“What happened?”

“You know how the coma I was in last month made me think I’d just gotten back from Fallujah? Well, there’s been some stuff going on, and Friday night I almost ate my gun—literally—and when I told Linda she just left the room, and…”

“Why did she leave?”

“To make sure my weapon was in the safe.”

His kid brother nods sagely. “That…that’s probably the first thing I’d do too, make sure you couldn’t hurt yourself right then.”

“She left. I coulda had my weapon still on my belt.”

“You’d been home a couple hours by then, Danny; I think Linda knew it wasn’t still on your belt. She needed to confirm that, though, to ease her mind.”

“You sound like a Harvard law professor, or a shrink—not a cop!”

“Right now, all I am is your concerned brother. I think you need to talk to Linda. Come on, Renzulli and I will make sure you get home okay.”

“Uh, Harvard, this is my car. You’re sitting in it. You and Renzulli have a beat to get back to.”

“Neither Renzulli nor I are gonna let you drive off by yourself, after you just told me you’re suicidal. Come on, I’ll ride home with you; Renzulli can follow us, and then I’ll get back to work. Just to ease my mind. Please?”

In the end, he accedes. He really doesn’t wanna know what Jamie told Renzulli…he’s sure by the end of the day, it’ll be all over the 12th precinct.

He gets Jamie talking about sports so they don’t talk about him and his mental state.

* * *

He walks in the house, sighs when he finds Linda cleaning the kitchen floor. He’d hoped she wouldn’t be home. “Danny, what’s wrong? Why are you home at 10 a.m.?”

He gets a glass of water, sinks into a chair at the kitchen table. “First Gormley tells me I’m on modified because Dawson had the balls to call the precinct and tell him I’m suicidal. I stormed out, got a speeding ticket from my kid brother, and just got a text from Gormley: I’m suspended. Probably ‘cause of storming out instead of staying and working my desk shift.”

She leans the mop against the fridge, sits down next to him. “Danny, you know Dawson had an obligation to report. Why didn’t you work your shift? You’ve been modified before.”

“This is the first time I’ve been modified because I’m freaking suicidal.”

He jumps a little when she scoots closer to him, takes his hands in hers. “Danny, I know the concussion rattled you, got you thinking about Fallujah more than you wanted to, but…why do you want to kill yourself?”

He doesn’t think he can answer that question. Probably couldn’t, if someone paid him to.

He shrugs. “Just…seems easier.”

“Easier than what?” she asks, and he recoils a little at her tone.

“Easier than living with the memories of what happened over there.”

“What happened over there, Danny?”

He shakes his head. “Thing that scared me the most when I was over there…and the fear just got worse when Joe was killed…dying, without you there. Getting hurt on the job and bleeding out, alone. That’s why it hurt so much when you left Friday night.”

“I…I’m sorry I left, Danny. I just…needed to know you didn’t have your gun.”

“Why didn’t you ask me?”

“Because I was afraid that…that if you did have it, you would turn it on yourself.”

“So you left me alone, when you weren’t sure if I had it or not.”

“I’m sorry! I screwed up, Danny! I’m sorry!”

He nods. “I…I’m sorry, too. For freaking out when you left, for overreacting.”

“Can I give you a hug?” she asks.

“You don’t have to ask,” he mumbles.

She hugs him tightly. “Yeah, I do. You’ve been so on-edge lately, I don’t want to startle you. C’mere.”

He lets her pull him upstairs, and falls asleep listening to her heartbeat.


	23. Author's Note--sorry

Apologies that this is not a chapter. This story is temporarily on hiatus while I finish “Bureaucratic B.S.,” which has taken on a life of its own. I also felt like the two stories were paralleling each other too much, with Danny being suicidal--despite taking place five years apart--so instead of writing them simultaneously, I’m going to finish B B.S., then get back to this one.


End file.
